


Up Against the Wall

by Marmosette



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, NSFW
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-27
Updated: 2014-01-27
Packaged: 2018-01-10 05:47:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1155838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marmosette/pseuds/Marmosette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg has found the safest place in London for a quickie. </p><p>I blame Duchesscloverly. She blames the boys.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Up Against the Wall

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Duchesscloverly](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Duchesscloverly).



Mycroft climbed the stairs to his little brother’s flat slowly, his umbrella hooked over his arm as he checked his phone messages, the fingers of his free hand trailing along the hand rail. Unfortunately there was no immediate world crisis to prevent him from entering the dingy, messy squalor his brother chose to live in.  
He raised his chin in silent acknowledgement of Lestrade, who was sprawled diagonally in Sherlock’s preferred chair, turned to face the door squarely. One ankle on the opposite knee, one hand dangling off the arm of the chair as he watched Mycroft enter.  
Mycroft looked away pointedly. “Have you already searched the place? I take it my baby brother is away on some ridiculous chase.”  
Greg shrugged. “Probably. I spent all morning trying to interest him in a cold case, and told him I’d bring it by and wouldn’t take no for an answer.”  
Mycroft raised his eyebrows and sighed, turning to look through the grubby kitchen and down the hall to Sherlock’s bedroom. “I assume the trail of bed linens and the appalling scent of Carex are a testament to your efforts.”  
“Pretty sure I passed his cab at the end of the road when I pulled in,” Greg said, wagging his foot absently.  
“Inspector, I do hope your goal isn’t to enlist my services because my little brother has turned you down.”  
Greg pursed his lips briefly in a lazy shrug. “That was kind of what I was hoping, yeah.”  
Mycroft sighed, pushing the tip of his umbrella against the floor and leaning on it, his other hand in his pocket. “There is no law on the books suggesting what the punishment is for wasting my time, but that means my range of options is far greater than those available for wasting police time.”  
Greg smiled slowly, licking at his lower lip. “That a fact?”  
Mycroft tipped his head. “I’m sorry?”  
“Go on, then. What kind of... _punishments_ did you have in mind?”  
Mycroft closed his eyes briefly. “The Chancellor is always keen to cut costs, and the programme introducing civilians as a supplemental—”  
“No, no, no,” Greg said easily, shaking his head. “You know that’s not what I had in mind.”  
Mycroft’s mouth hung open for a moment before he remembered to close it, no words coming immediately to mind. He could feel his face going pink.  
“That’s more like it,” Greg said, nodding slowly.  
“What, _here_?” Mycroft asked in distaste, glancing around the flat. “In the most grotesque and filthy flat either of us have access to?”  
“You’ve never seen Mrs Hudson taking it out on the rest of the place after Sherlock’s shooed her out of this room,” Greg said calmly.  
Mycroft looked around pointedly. “No amount of persuasion will have me so much as touch my brother’s headboard.”  
“I don’t even care if he has one,” Greg countered.  
“You don’t expect me to—”  
Greg pushed himself to his feet suddenly, his hands reaching for his belt. “This is the one place neither of us will be interrupted, and no one will look for us, and we can absolutely guarantee Sherlock won’t come near for another day, at least.”  
“An unpleasant choice of words,” Mycroft said with an acidic little smile.  
“Shut up,” Greg told him, snapping down the zipper on his fly.  
Mycroft visibly flinched, and took a step back. “This is not the place, Gregory.”  
“Says who?”  
“Fifty percent of the parties involved.”  
“Hang on,” Greg said, tipping his head and shaking his finger once, glancing aside. “Democracy, republic, what’s that other one, with the one person in charge…”  
“Dictatorship?”  
“Constitutional monarchy, that was it. You sort of get a vote, but only if the king says you do. Or, of course, the queen.”  
Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Very droll. I never tire of that one.”  
Greg stuck out his chin, staring at Mycroft’s lips. “Just so we’re clear, your objection is the surroundings, not the act itself.”  
“Have I ever managed to resist you?” Mycroft asked, unable to keep his eyes on Greg as he said it. It was meant to sound flippant, but it was so true that it hurt.  
“No, you haven’t,” Greg said, his own eyes never leaving Mycroft’s face, waiting until Mycroft glanced back at him. “Every time Sherlock stops Mrs Hudson from cleaning in this room,” he said, pointing at the sitting room, “she comes in here and scrubs the wall, or the floor if her hip’s having a good day. It’s at least twice a week, and Sherlock’s never managed to find a way to store body parts on a vertical surface.” Greg took a step closer.  
Mycroft looked down at him, uncomfortably aware that while he was inches taller than Greg, Greg was far more physically inclined. This was about to get quite physical indeed. “I’m...I...Gregory—”  
“Look. We’re in his flat. I can’t make your safe word any safer. From now on, if you want to object, just say it— say his name.”  
“Gregory,” Mycroft breathed, watching his lips just a moment longer before realising and forcing his eyes up to Greg’s, which was no kind of help. He could have melted into them. His neutrality was shattered, Greg could see everything he was trying not to think. He was aware that Greg’s hands were doing something down by his waist to advance his own state of undress, his lips just barely parted, widening into a smile, the tip of his tongue working just in front of his teeth while his eyes remained hooded, his brows dipping lower as he watched Mycroft’s breathing going ragged. “I’m just...not sure I can…”  
Greg lunged for him, throwing an arm around Mycroft’s waist and swinging aside as he threw the taller man back against the kitchen wall. Mycroft gasped, the umbrella falling to the ground with a clatter. He managed to keep his head from smacking back into the tile, but before he could shift away again Greg had a leg between his, his other leg braced back and immovable. Grabbing Mycroft’s near wrist, he yanked him away from the wall and spun him around, pushing him back again, this time face-first.  
Mycroft caught his balance with his free hand, the other trapped against his back by Greg’s body. “Done now?” Greg asked in his ear. Mycroft tipped his head away instinctively and Greg caught his face, turning him back, pushing hard at his cheek. “You really want me to stop, say the word,” Greg said, resting his chin on Mycroft’s shoulder for a moment, leaning to meet his eyes. “Hm? Or I could take your suit off, fold it neatly. Make sure it doesn’t get...damaged.”  
Mycroft gasped, pressing his forehead against the cool glass tiles, his fingers spreading and straightening around the corner of the doorway.  
Greg hummed appreciatively and reached around Mycroft with both arms, wrapping the fingers of one hand around the knot of his silk tie, sliding the fingers of his other hand inside the top of Mycroft’s waistcoat. Mycroft felt the pull of both against the back of his neck and tipped his head back until it rested against Greg’s cheek.  
“You smell _so good_ ,” Greg groaned, running his hands slowly down Mycroft’s chest, pulling his tie free, reaching up inside his waistcoat and stroking the thin cotton of his shirt before lowering both hands to Mycroft’s fly.  
Greg took his time, lingering over each button, stroking the hardening bulge of Mycroft’s prick through his trousers repeatedly as he slipped the buttons free. When he coaxed Mycroft’s erection up and through the front of his boxers, Mycroft gasped again, trying to remind himself to breathe. Greg ran his nose along the shell of Mycroft’s ear, his breath tickling even as Greg cupped his balls and wrapped his fingers around Mycroft’s shaft, feeling the answering surges with every beat of Mycroft’s heart.  
“Y’see, everything about you is just so...elegant. From your face, your hands...your clothes…”  
Mycroft’s eyes snapped open again as Greg nudged Mycroft’s trousers off his hips and sent them sliding down his legs. While he was still blinking, Greg stretched out the waistband of Mycroft’s boxers and drew the soft silk along his prick until it slid off the tip, making Mycroft catch his breath and tip his head back again, and then the boxers were nudged down his thighs. Mycroft pressed his palms against the glass, gasping as Greg’s fingers, slick with the moisture from both of their erections, found his opening and slid inside.  
“I’m not sure...while standing…” Mycroft managed between harsh breaths.  
“Don’t even care,” Greg breathed, resting his head against the back of Mycroft’s shoulder, sliding his fingers inside again, somehow managing to stroke the inside of Mycroft’s sphincter tenderly, gently. He ran his other hand across the lean arse as if tasting the skin through his fingers. Soon he was clutching, his breath grown ragged even as he folded forward, pressing his face into Mycroft’s shoulder again. “I swear, I could recognize you blindfolded, just by feeling your suit.”  
Mycroft caught his lip in his teeth and arched, working himself to one side, pressing his neck against Greg’s face, shaking every time Greg exhaled. “Nn. Not if it means…” He trailed off, gasping as Greg’s fingertip touched his prostate, making him wrench his arm free and slap at the wall. “Greg. Oh, Greg, my legs.”  
Greg bit at his neck. “I’ve got you. You’ve got nowhere to go. Just feel me. Ah, God, you’re a beautiful thing.”  
Mycroft reached back and dug his fingers into Greg’s short, thick grey hair, clenching his fist and then stroking across his skull again as Greg’s finger twisted and turned, gently spreading him, preparing him. “Now,” Mycroft sighed, flexing his shoulders. “Now, before I fall.” He could feel the pressure of Greg leaning forward against him, holding him up. He grabbed a handful of Greg’s trousers, twisting and digging his nails in.  
“Mmm.” Greg held Mycroft wide for a moment, then slid his fingers free and nudged his own cock inside.  
Mycroft gasped again and bucked, moaning as he felt Greg’s heartbeat inside him, pulsing and swelling even more. He clung to the corner of the wall, his body spasming in anticipation, his blood surging through him, thick with adrenaline and endorphins. Greg was breathing harder, one arm reaching up under Mycroft’s and across his chest, his fingers tangling in Mycroft’s tie and flexing against his shirt. Greg’s other hand was down below Mycroft’s waist, two fingers undulating against his balls while his index finger stroked across the moist tip of his cock. Mycroft could feel Greg’s hand trembling, his semi-clothed hips grinding against Mycroft’s arse. It was clumsy and brutal and perfect.  
Mycroft turned his head, pressing his cheek against the tile, panting and twitching, desperate for release, almost ready to beg. Greg shifted his fingers, bringing both hands into play, stroking him slowly and firmly in time with the movement of his own hips. Mycroft moaned again, squeezing his eyes tightly shut, reaching back to grasp Greg’s waist and tug him closer, burying him deeper and shuddering.  
Greg’s dextrous manipulation of Mycroft’s erection made him clench and flex and shiver, all of which translated through ring of muscle around Greg’s own prick, and Mycroft felt his mind melting in the heat of it, allowing himself to be the instrument Greg played, leading himself to orgasm. Knowing how Greg was responding, feeling his reactions, his thrusts, his pause to readjust, all of it brought out a wretched, craven need in him, his ache for Greg’s orgasm as heavy and painful as his own.    
When his moment came, he had to let go of Greg abruptly and cling to the wall, feeling himself spurting and surging under Gregs’s fingers. He was still concentrating on staying on his feet when Greg’s own orgasm rushed into him, Mycroft’s eyes snapping open as Greg’s fingers dug into his hips.  
“Yes. Yes!” Greg tipped his head back and groaned, his hands sliding up over Mycroft’s clothes and clutching at his tie and shirtfront above his waistcoat.  
“Ahh!” Mycroft gasped, trying to look back and catch a glimpse of Greg’s face. Greg leaned forward against him, pressing him so firmly into the wall that he couldn’t have fallen if he’d tried. He let himself be pinned, panting, his lips dry, eyes shut, trembling as his blood cooled and slowed. His palms slid down the wall, his cheek pulling up as his neck relaxed.  
Greg tapped his fingers lightly, lazily against Mycroft’s chest, flapping his tie as well, his movements sloppy and ragged. “Oh. Oh, you lovely thing.”  
Mycroft’s lips twitched toward a smile and he raised his eyebrows, glancing back at his lover. “I—”  
There was a pounding on the living room door to the flat. Mycroft’s eyes flew wide and he flinched, entirely aware of his position, flat against a come-splashed wall, trousers round his ankles, Greg’s cock still up his arse. Greg made a sound in his throat like the start of a whimper or groan, immediately stopped himself, and raised a finger to Mycroft’s lips quickly as he withdrew, pulling his trousers together and zipping as he went.  
“Sherlock? Sherlock, are you all right?” Mrs Hudson knocked again. “I heard screaming. Sherlock? If this is another of your experiments, so help me—”  
Mycroft heard the door open, cutting her off. “Mrs. Hudson, what’s wrong?”  
“Oh! Inspector, I didn’t realise you were here. I thought I heard—”  
“Sorry, look, sorry,” Greg apologised, sounding as if he’d just figured it out, himself. “No, he’s not here. I’m trying to get him to take a case, so if he comes back, you’re not to tell him I’m here, do you understand?”  
“Well, yes, of course, only I did hear shouting.”  
“Yeah, that was me on the phone. John finally answered his mobile, and things got a bit…” There was a pause. Mycroft knew exactly which face Greg would be making, nose wrinkled, lip rumpled, wagging his head a bit. “D’you know what time he went out?”  
“I didn’t realise he had. I thought it was him shouting, that’s why I came up to check.”  
“Ah. Yeah. Right. Look, just don’t say a word to him if he calls, got that? I’ve got a terrified boyfriend back at the Yard, and if I can’t get Sherlock to come in and take a look, I dunno if he’s going to see his fiancee again.”  
“Oh, dear. Yes, of course, Inspector. He can be a bit thick, sometimes.”  
Greg’s snort was audible through the wall. “Ah. Sorry, Mrs Hudson, I’ve got to take this...Lestrade, what you got?” The door closed, and Mycroft heard Mrs Hudson’s careful steps back down the stairs as Greg’s voice came nearer, then cut off.  
“Very good, Inspector,” Mycroft sighed, lifting one leg to bring his trousers and underwear within reach, tugging things back into place. “Well done.”  
Greg smiled quietly, dropping his phone back into his jacket pocket. “Thank you very much,” he said smoothly, watching Mycroft’s movements. “Well then. That’s you off, is it?”  
Mycroft raised an eyebrow at him, paused, and narrowed his eyes. “Oh very good. Yes. Quite droll.”  
“Nah, you loved it. Admit it.”  
“The act, or the words?”  
Greg hesitated, then shrugged. “Yeah, all right. But you did love the act.”  
“You can hardly expect me to deny it,” Mycroft answered, giving the wall beside him a pointed glance.  
“How about this, then—I’ll clean it all up, if you stay and this time we trade places.”


End file.
